A Box of Sorts
by WhirligigSwirl
Summary: Some cases end on a more... scientific note. (This summary is weird, I don't really know what to do with it.)


They were on a case. John skidded around a corner after Sherlock, only to find his friend sprawled across the pavement, hand wrapped around the ankle of their struggling culprit. John bit back an (inappropriately timed) laugh and went to help.

Within minutes, they had managed to subdue the man, wrest his knife from his grip, sit on him (John), and silence him (Sherlock). While Sherlock called Lestrade, John looked over the man's head wound and deemed it bloody, dirty, and likely not to do more than scar nastily. Within minutes, the area was full of police cars and one ambulance, whose paramedics bandaged the man's head before the police took him into custody.

It was only when they were headed home around one am that John realized that Sherlock hadn't taken his hand out of his coat pocket for quite awhile, and that he appeared to be doing something in it.

"Sherlock?" he asked, tilting his head at him across the cab.

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't look away from the window, though he tensed minutely.

"What's in your pocket?"

* * *

"Seriously?" John stood at the foot of the stairs, eyebrow raised. "The cat?"

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope to the cat on John's shoulder, tail wrapped around his neck. "It needed a home."

"Our home though? And you didn't think to ask me?" John glanced at the door to the stairs. "Does Mrs. Hudson even allow pets?"

Sherlock sighed and stood, walking over to pluck the cat from John's shoulder. "I checked our contract. Plus, it was abused by the man we caught last night, and I didn't want to just give it to a shelter."

"Fine, just- bloody fine. But you're getting the food." John turned to head back up the stairs, and didn't notice Sherlock's grin as he cuddled the scrawny cat to his chest.

* * *

A week later, John woke up yet again to a pile of purring cat on his shoulder. "Hungry?" he muttered, reaching up to scratch the cat's ears. "Come on, let's see about some food." Groaning, he clambered out of bed and reached up to place the cat on the floor, only to receive a hiss for his trouble.

"Fine, stay there." He headed down to the kitchen to fill his food bowl and watched the creature scarf it down as if starved.

"He should slow down soon enough," Sherlock said from across the kitchen. John started and spun around- he hadn't heard him come in.

"What?"

"Once he decides he's not going to starve, he'll begin to regulate himself." Sherlock handed John a cup of tea and leaned against the counter-top, watching his pet.

"Have you decided on a name yet?" John asked after a moment, as the cat finished his meal and settled down for a bath.

Sherlock cocked his head at him in surprise. "Name?"

Shaking his head, John turned to look at his friend. "Seriously? You know, to distinguish him from other cats!"

"There are no other cats around here."

John sighed. "Fine, whatever. But if you don't pick a name by tonight, I'll name him." Pushing away from the counter, he rinsed his mug and headed for the stairs. "I've got work in an hour."

* * *

"I've got it!" Sherlock bolted upright on the couch, upsetting the cat, who'd settled on his stomach. The creature immediately dug his claws in on reflex, and Sherlock hissed before gently disentangling them from his shirt.

He looked around, then remembered John was at the surgery. He considered, then went to get dressed, taking the cat with him.

* * *

Next morning, John woke up to a jingle by his ear and turned to meet green-yellow eyes staring almost guiltily back at him. One paw raised, it seemed the cat had been about to climb onto his shoulder like every other morning to rouse him for breakfast.

John blinked sleepily and rubbed at his eyes. "You jingled," he said slowly. He reached out a hand to scratch behind his ears and sat up, drawing him into his lap. The creature settled against his leg, purring , and he took advantage of the position to locate the blue collar and subsequent tag around it's neck.

"Schrodinger

221B Baker Street

London, England

07700 900461"

John laughed and shook his head, then headed downstairs to feed Schrodinger.


End file.
